Stuffed Zuchinni

A friend of mine has a garden that produces way more veggies than her family can eat. This works out well for me because I don't have a garden or the ability to keep most plants alive. If you know anything about summer squash, it grows like a weed and if you turn your back on the suckers for even a moment, you'll get giant freak-show sized vegetables. This is not far from what happened in her garden and one day she presented me with this one:

I considered it cancelling my gym membership and just dragging this thing around with me for the the rest of my life.(Because if it wasn't already clear from my duck lips, that was one heavy son of a bitch.) But I decided to keep paying my monthly dues so I can use their elliptical machines for 45 minutes every couple days and instead, this zucchini was headed for the food processes.  I ended up making two loaves of bread and freezing half of it for bread another day. Since I still had leftovers, I saved those to hide in Charlie's scrambled eggs because I can be sneaky like that sometimes.

I imagine the summer squash will keep coming for a while, and while I am in no way complaining, I need to get creative with my preparation so as not to get board. Besides the bread and the scrambles I have sauteed it, roasted it and most recently, stuffed it. And, really, what doesn't taste better filled with meat and cheese? Dare I say, nothing does.

I sauteed an onion, scallions, garlic and fresh mint until tender, then added the ground beef and cooked until browned.

This is one of my favorite kitchen tools. And I have never used it for it's original intention. But look it how well it handles gutting a zucchini.

See? Gorgeous.

Once the meat as cooled, add crumbled goat cheese, toasted bread crumbs and chopped tomatoes (the ones I used also happened to be from her garden and they tasted like what candy would taste like if candy was made from tomatoes.)

Stuff the squash (don't be shy, really pack in in there). Top it with some more of the toasted bread crumbs and bake in a 350 degree oven until heated through and bubbling. Basically, since I have made this, all I can think about are other things I can stuff with meat and cheese.

The things I learned today

1. I still got it.

2. I actually no longer have low back pain everyday. (Some days, sure. Just not everyday anymore and that's a big deal.)

3. I discovered the only way I will ever make Rice Krispy Treats again. EVER. You're welcome.

Salted Brown Butter Krispy Treats. Sweet mother of all things holy.

Um, Goldfish

 (Disclaimer for my family members with sensitive ears: There is a swear in this post. You know, a "cuss". A "naughty word." Sorry. Sometimes I enjoy a well placed curse word for comedic purposes. And what can I say, cats have potty mouths. Read on.)

It is a well known fact that kids are terrible at naming things.

How do I know this? Because when I was about eight years old, my sister gave me a stuffed cat for some gift giving occasion. I will never forget this cat. It was about the size of a real cat and was positioned much like how a cat would be if it was say, snobbishly sitting on a marble pedestal. The look on it's face seemed to say, "I am cat. Don't fuck with me." Why my sister thought that this screamed "Heather" I'll never know. I didn't even like cats. So, I am sure it also goes without saying that children are also terrible at giving gifts.

Either way, I liked the present as much an any kid would who was handed something free. And like most children I had a desire to name all my inanimate object so I decided to name this cat, Givalen.

Yes, that is what I said: Givalen, pronounced give-uh-lynn. I figured I would go ahead and help you sound that one out since it ISN'T A REAL WORD!!! My reason behind that name was because my sister "gave" me the cat. But based on that logic, the cat should have been named "Gavalen." I suppose you could argue that the cat was "given" to me...but that is not the point! The point is that the name was ridiculous and why my mother did not immediately kick me out of the house with a blanket, juice box and a note that read, "Free daughter. Comes with this cat," I'll never know.

After the death of our beloved little friend, Ernesto, Charlie was really looking forward to adding a new fish to the family. And like a freaking idiot, I asked the two-year-old what he thought would be a good name for our new fish.

"Um, I think, um, Goldfish."

"Right. We are going to get a new fish, but what do you think we should name it?"

"Um, Goldfish."

Goldfish? This is even lamer than my stupid cat name! At least mine was original! We tried to explain to him that while it is a goldfish that we would be buying, he could name it anything he wanted. For example, my mom (aka, Mimmi to Charlie) has two dogs named Lily and Tippy. They are dogs but they have names. So, we asked again, "What would you like to name our new fish when we get it?" His response:

"GOOOOOLLLLDFIIISHHHHH!!!!!!!!" Alright. Fine.

Finally, the day came and it was time to get our new little fish and Grant asks, one last time to be sure. "So, what do you want to name her, Charlie?"

"Um, I think, Orange." A little better I suppose.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet our newest family member, Madame Orangina the 14th, Orange (or Orangie) for short. You have thirteen years worth of big shoes to fill, little lady.

Unsolicited Parenting Advice #5

These days, Charlie needs a lot. For example, he NEEDS to jump off of every curb he sees. He NEEDS to hold all the groceries in his part of the cart. He NEEDS to eat the cereal out of my bowl instead of the exact same cereal in his bowl. All very valid needs, indeed, and I deal with them on a case by case basis.

Sometimes these needs of his make it even more difficult to leave the house on time. And while I understand that he probably really does need to touch every single one of his toys on his way out the door, the doctor doesn't tend to buy that excuse when you are twenty minutes late and they have given your appointment away. In a perfect world, this would never be a problem because I would be just that organized, leaving plenty of time for all the toy fiddling needs but that is not real life and I would rather sleep to the last possible second than be "ready ahead of time." Since that is just not realistic most days, sometimes doing whatever I need to so we can get out the door on time is what this mama "needs" to do.

Since I know this about myself, I try my best when I am not rushing to make an extra effort to not pull him away from an activity because of my insane time schedule. Tonight, at the end of his bath, I told him it was time to get out and to go push the lever to let the water out. Getting out of the bath is a similar to trying to get out of the house. All of a sudden he remembers all the toys he "forgot" to play with and maybe he should wash his belly one more time and Mommy, since we are just sitting here doing nothing, let me tell you about my entire day in great detail. This evening was no exception. When he swam over the drain on his belly and pushed the lever for the drain. Probably by accident, while trying to push himself up to standing so I could get him out, his hand covered the drain and the sound of the water leaving the tub slowed almost to a stop. He did it again and again, until finally he looked up at me with a giant smile that seemed to say, "Mom, I just discovered the coolest thing ever!"

When the tub finally drained and I did get him out of the bath I asked, "Charlie, what happened when you put your hand over the drain?"

"It was going little."

"And then when you took your hand off?"

"It got big."

A completely organic discovery by my two-year-old about how a drain works, all because I gave him an extra 30 seconds to figure it out. So awesome.

Camping or Bust(ed foot)

Growing up camping at least once a summer, I knew it was something that I wanted to be a part of Charlie's life. As a child, the only thing I remember about camping was it was days filled with playing in the dirt, eating sugary cereal and never having to be interrupted by a pesky bath. What I did not remember was all the work that went into camping. There is a lot of prep ahead of time that basically goes something like this:

• Making To-Do lists
• Making shopping lists
• Organizing
• Forgetting my lists while shopping
• Questioning why I am doing this at all
• Deciding to bring more booze to the campground

I made the mistake of telling Charlie we were going camping several weeks in advance. Since he has no concept of time, when I said, "Charlie, in a few weeks were are going camping! Aren't you excited?" He heard, "Charlie after you finish that snack we are going camping! So hurry up and choke it down so we can get on the road for a trip of a lifetime!!!" And every day after that it didn't matter what I told him we were about to go do, it was unacceptable unless it was camping. Want to go to the park, Charlie? No, I'm going camping. OK, how about the toy store? Camping, Mommy. Disneyland? I SAID CAMPING!!!!

My favorite part about all of this, besides trying to talk him down from a tantrum about not going camping yet even though he has no concept of time or what it means to be patient, is the fact that he has no idea what the hell camping means. For all he knew, "camping" actually meant, "being poked repeatedly with electric cattle prods" but goddamn it, he was going.

And then this happened:

Yes, that's right: mere days before camping, my graceful child tripped over a little plastic toy which maybe (and this is a big maybe) resulted in a hairline fracture in his foot. Based on the diagnosis, the doctor wrapped up the foot in this brace that he was not to walk on at all and smiled at me meekly and said, "So, yeah. You are just gonna have to carry him all the time." It took everything in my power to not beat him senseless with the heel end of Charlie's cast.

"So we are going out of town this weekend."

"Oh, you can go out of town," he said.

"We are going camping."

He giggled under his breath. "Uh, you can go camping if you want."

That is when Charlie started beating him with his cast.

So I can go camping. I can do anything I want, but I'LL JUST HAVE TO CARRY HIM ALL THE TIME. Are you out of your mind?? No, but really, it should be fine, considering most two-year-olds have the ability to listen and understand reason. You see, he actually said to me that he could get more injured from trying to walk on the cast. For example he could get a head injury from tripping and falling. All for a foot that MIGHT NOT EVEN BE BROKEN. Anyway, doc, that's great. So, where can I pick up my prescription for Valium again? Generic is fine, just so long as I don't have to wake up until my VERY BUSY TWO-YEAR-OLD CAN WALK AGAIN.

Even though walking was out of the question. Charlie did figure out how to get around:

Here you see him dragging his bum leg behind him toward a bowl of yogurt raisins that I kept moving just out of his reach. What?!? The doctor wouldn't let me get the Valium so a mom has to have a little fun now and again!

We saw a specialist the next day and were hopeful that he would tell us the splint was not needed and he could go on his merry toddler way. That is almost what we got; the splint was removed and he was fitted with a walking boot.

Here is a picture of Charlie sporting his boot while he helps organize the garage. The doctor said he can walk in it so he can work. He's the one who wants to go camping anyway and those tents aren't going to set up themselves.

So the Shellens went camping, boot and all. It was a long drive, it rained, was only sort of warm but it was worth every single second. Camping FOR THE WIN! 

Charlie and Ella, clearly up to no good.

The Falls. Just stunning. 

The Meyers.

 The part you can't see is the kid crying on the side of the trail because Brittaney stole their bike. JUST KIDDING!! (It was her own kid she left crying on the side of the trail.)

STICK!

The Shellens. (It's almost cute enough for our 2012 Christmas card)

Nah, this one is way cuter.

Ernesto

In 1998 at a Walmart in Jackson CA I bought a goldfish for $0.12. I figured we would at least have a few good months together that would consist of a little tank cleaning, fish food feeding and general debauchery, but our relationship, like any other relationship you would have with a fish, would be short-lived.
 
Little did I know that I would be spending over a decade with my little friend, Ernesto.
 
When I bought him, Ernesto was less than an inch long and completely white aside from a splotch of orange atop his tiny head. When I first brought him home, he had a modest dwelling, perfect size for one tiny goldfish. Red rocks covered the bottom of his bowl and a viney water plant floated freely about in the water. He had everything a fish needed, really. But, after a few weeks he seemed lonely so I bought him a friend and a larger bowl. Bruce was a bit bigger and completely orange. He moved in and it seemed that the two were getting along well. They split household chores. Bruce knew it was unacceptable to poop when company was around and so on. Three days later, Bruce was belly up.
 
Okay. Maybe it was wrong of me to assume that Ernesto enjoyed the company of men and was requesting a "hetero" kind of living arrangement. Fair enough. So for my birthday my sister gave me Francette. A pretty little goldfish whose scales were pink. Things seemed to be going well once again. Problem solved; Ernesto was not gay. But the love story that would be Ernesto and Francette was over before it started and she suffered the same fate as Bruce and was dead within days. This was around the time that Ernesto was given a new nickname "Ernesto the Jackal: Night Killer."
 
Fine, he wants to live a life of solitude. I can respect that. And so the years went on. He and my other aquatic companion, Jacques, an African Water frog who lives for 7 years, came with me to college. (Each absolutely in his own respective tanks, mind you. There would be no more night murders on my watch.) And I drove them to and from Sacramento, where I attended college, and the Bay Area for holidays and long weekends home. I would place their tanks in an upside down box lid, pack socks and shirts around the them to avoid shifting and cover the tops of the tanks in plastic wrap to prevent water loss. The box sat on the floor of the front passenger seat of my 1982 Chevy Nova hatchback where there was very little protection between the wheel hub and the floor of the car.  I was always nervous about what the effects of the noise and the vibrations would be on delicate fish ears, but it didn't seem to bother him one bit.

Also, do fish have ears? 

When Jaques passed away I thought that for sure Ernesto was right behind him. It is not like I wished death upon him. I would've been devastated if he died but I knew that 7 years was a long time for a fish. Jesus, 7 days is a long time for most goldfish! But Ernesto pushed on. Often times, people didn't believe that he could possibly be the same fish. This had become increasingly hard to prove since his all white body with the orange splotch on his head had now changed to an all orange body with not a speck of white to be found. But I swear to you, it was same Ernesto. 

So how did I do it?  How did I keep him alive all this time? I am almost embarrassed to admit it.

I cleaned his tank less than often and by that I mean once every 2 months...if he was lucky. Also, I have never used tap water that I then fortified with some kind of bottled dechlorinator.  The only kind of water that my fish's scales have ever touched was Arrowhead Mountain Spring Water. Was this the spa treatment for a fish? Was I spoiling him? More importantly, was this even necessary? Frankly, I don't know and I don't care. It worked. Admittedly, laziness played a big part in the infrequency of the tank cleanings. But the real reason is I never wanted to do anything that would upset the environment. Once the algae started to grow, thick and slimy on the side of the tank, I started to worry that he may have now adapted to this type of environment and changing the water and scrubbing the glass back to crystal clear would somehow shock the little guy's clearly aging body. But once it reached the point of not being able to see inside the tank anymore, (or company was coming) I knew the cleaning had to happen. I felt bad about my sometimes lack of interest in the cleanliness of the tank, but I was doing something right. In fact, I was a good fish mom. We had made it though thick and thin. Countless miles back and forth up I-80 on the floor of my car, 2 murders, and even a short bout of skin ulcers that was cleared up with an antiseptic additive that I added to the water daily. I thought for sure that the ulcers would do him in but he came through with flying (or swimming) colors. No one could believe that he had made it this long. Around the time Ernesto was 6 years old, I decided to set a goal for our relationship.  I hoped that he would live to 10 years old, or live to meet my first child. Which ever came first. In July 2008, Ernesto hit his first milestone. He made it to the 10 year mark. I was proud of him and it was really all I could ask of him. But then, in March of 2010 he met the second goal and helped us welcome Charlie home. Such a trooper.

It may seem silly that I completely broke down in tears when I walked up to his tank last night to see that he had passed away. But he has literally been a part of my life for almost half of my life. I have known Ernesto almost as long as I've known my husband. And he knew me. I know this because he always got excited when it was time to be fed and would swim over to the side of the bowl wagging his little fish fins in anticipation of the flakes. Earlier that day, Charlie was feeding him and he sat in my lap and we looked in the tank together and Charlie said, "Hi Ernesto! Come and get some lunch!" I am so glad to have had that moment with him and Charlie. 

I have to giggle a little today when I think about what I said to Grant when I found him floating lifeless in the tank. "What do you think happened??" I asked.

Grant placed his hand on my back and said, "Well, honey. He's a goldfish...and he was 13 years old." 

Thirteen great years. 

Ernesto

July 1998 - June 2012

Rest in peace, little buddy.

Candy what?

My mom saved a lot of things from my childhood. Clothes, toys and boxes of artwork from school take up space in the loft in my parents garage. It is nice that my mom has held on to these memories for my sister and I to look back on. However, I know that I'll never be able to do this as well as she has for my kids. There are many reasons for this:

1. I am not as organized as my mom. Why my mother did not pass the organization gene on to me, I will never know and I will forever be bitter about it. You would think after years of watching my mom file and straighten and label some of it would've rubbed off on me. Instead, I feel like every drawer in my house looks vaguely like a junk drawer; no matter what I do, they all seem to be littered with paperclips and old receipts.

2. I don't like clutter. I get that this doesn't make sense considering I just told you I was not organized. So basically, if I feel like things are getting cluttered I just start throwing stuff away (or into the drawers that I keep all my paperclips in.)

3. Clearly, my soul is made of ice. Now, this one is not entirely true. While I did throw all of your Christmas cheer right in the recycle bin and if you are sitting still in my house long enough, I'll probably try to donate you, I do keep the "important" things. For example, on my birthday, in 7th grade, my close friends were kind enough to surprise me with balloons and flowers in the morning before school. My, now husband, at the time had a major crush on me (and who wouldn't, especially the way I could rock a floral print body suit and crocheted vest.) Despite the crush, he failed to remember it was my birthday. So at lunch he went out into the soccer field and picked me a bouquet of tiny lawn daisies which he tied together with the rubber band from someone elses' braces. They are dried and brown today, but I still have them.

Another example, my great grandfather passed away when I was ten. My sister and I both got a roll of quarters as our "inheritance" and we could buy anything we wanted from him. I bought this:

I guess, at the time, it reminded me of him:

(These are my Great-Grandparents whom I called "Bah" and "Daddal." That cute little long-haired version of Charlie in the middle is actually me.)

For a child I can see why this weird little frog was cool/cute/display-worthy. Today, I realize that this thing is basically why the term "fugly" was invented. When I stopped displaying it, I put it in a box full of other memories and forgot about it.

Before Grant and I got married we had a garage sale to raise money for our honeymoon.  While going threw boxes looking for items to sell, I found this frog and thought to myself, "You know, I am ok with parting with this. I mean, it is not like I will ever display it again." So out it went, onto a table with other various items that I was planning on selling for probably no more than $1.00 each.  All day, the patrons came and went and I saw my gelato and pasta fund growing and growing.

And then, someone picked up the frog. My heart nearly stopped. He walked toward me, and I started to panic.

"How much for this?" He asked.

(Oh God! What do I do? What do I do?) 

"$25!" I blurted out.

He looked at me like I was insane, but this is mostly because I practically grabbed the little guy out of his hand and started to stroke his like resin head. "It's ok little froggie. Mommy will never leave you." Needless to say, I did not sell the frog that day and I don't plan on getting rid of it anytime soon.

So yes, fine! I throw away Christmas cards and photographs sometimes! But I keep what is important. Like the painting that hangs on the bulletin board in the kitchen. Even though I know there are probably thousands more to come, this was Charlie's first painting and I just can part with it yet. And while my mom probably hung on to too much stuff, amongst it all, there was some really important stuff too.  Like this gem for example:

 

 ("The Candy Beaver loved to eat candy. He smiled big and he made up a poem." Gold. Absolute gold.)